


Time After Time Part Two: Sam's Turn

by WantingMemories



Series: Time After Time [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1920s, 1929, Angel Shenanigans, F/M, Flappers, Gen, Multi, POV Sam Winchester, Prohibition, Roaring 20s, Time Travel, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2016-04-11
Packaged: 2018-06-01 13:51:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6522370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WantingMemories/pseuds/WantingMemories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam didn’t know what hit him—though he was sure it was not the bus which had been barreling towards him. It was frighteningly similar to when Castiel would teleport them somewhere. <br/>He had no concept whatsoever until Robert’s twenty-three year-old daughter walked into the kitchen in a flapper dress. Even then, he was certain it was a costume for some party. <br/>There was another tickle of an idea at the back of Sam’s brain when they piled into a running 1927 Ford Model T truck.<br/>He felt himself cringe as he covered his eyes. “Oh no no nonononono…” The house, the furniture, the dress, the car! Holy shit I’m in fucking 1929! Where the hell is Cas?</p><p>No phone. No laptop. No internet. No beer to make it through without the internet!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time After Time Part Two: Sam's Turn

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nomdeplume13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nomdeplume13/gifts).



Sam didn’t know what hit him—though he was sure it was not the bus which had been barreling towards him. No—instead of feeling immense pain all over his body, or death (again), Sam found himself on a very well packed dirt road. Best part was that there was no traffic whatsoever to hit him.

The large man took a breath, his heart still racing from his near-ouch experience. He placed a hand on his chest and willed the throbbing to slow down, just _calm down._ He was surprised to still be standing after such a whammy, but he was in the exact position he’d been before. He was even holding the deli bag of lunch he’d been in the process of bringing back to the hotel. It was frighteningly similar to when Castiel would teleport them somewhere. He even had the slight dizzy feeling that he got with that particular form of travel; which turned into full-blown motion sickness with his brother.

Okay, so Cas had saved him from the bus. It made logical sense to Sam, but then where was his angel friend now? Why was he on some back road with only trees in sight? Did Cas know if something bad was coming for the town? Was he in the process of retrieving Dean?

Sam rummaged in his coat pocket for his phone and quickly unlocked it. No signal. Fantastic.

Everything was wrong. Castiel _had_ teleported Dean before without warning, but the angel had stayed right there to listen to the resulting complaining. Sam was in the middle of nowhere; with no idea of location other than it was a deciduous forest, so most likely U.S. or Canada. _Not_ Nevada. He was alone, and lost, with no angel.

However at this point, Sam was more concerned with what kind of trouble Dean might be in for Cas to have such a hurried reaction.

 

 

The only thing that could be done was to walk. He took the opportunity to eat his sandwich before starting out. He also chugged the rest of his tea, but kept the bottle. He wasn’t sure when he’d find anyone, and he figured having a sealable container for potential water was a good call. Sam wasn’t too concerned about himself. He knew the basics of hunting (though little about tracking), and he had some survival training. Both his father and Bobby had known that one day there might be a hunt that turned sour in the woods, and by God short of being suck on a desert island or in the Badlands, Sam could make it out with only improvised supplies. He had his Swiss Army Knife, his lighter, salt, silver, and holy water. He could make it until he found something on this road.

He kept Dean’s meatball sub and IBC Root Beer in the bag though, for now. Just in case Cas came back for him just as quickly as he’d teleported him. He didn’t want his brother to get hot under the collar because Sam had eaten his food. If enough time passed, he would use it as another meal before it went sour.

At least the weather was comfortable. A little warm for his flannel shirt and jacket though. So Sam shrugged them both off, tied them around his waist, and walked in his tee shirt.

 

 

 A couple miles down the road led to what looked like a private driveway. The road itself was packed dirt, and narrow, but this turnoff was even more-so; with a strip of grass growing down the center. Sam stopped at the entrance. The road seemed to be surrounded by trees until it bent out of sight. He considered _not_ looking for help from this private residence. It might very well have been a hunting cabin with no one there. It might have been a nest. It might have simply been abandoned—though he didn’t think so by the look of the worn, but well maintained road.

Sam rubbed his forearm over his brow to catch some moisture. He decided the risk was well worth it, if it could mean shelter and help on finding his location. Who knew when he would find another person out here? Wherever “here” was. He would scope out the place before letting any inhabitants know he was there. _If_ it was a nest, Sam would head back to the main road (could it be called that?) and just avoid it. He did not have the resources or backup to take on a nest.

He walked into the shade and started down the long driveway he hoped would lead him closer to answers.

 

 

The farm—and it _was_ an honest-to-God working farm with crops and cattle—was clearly not a nest of anything he’d ever seen. Vamps didn’t keep cows and crops for obvious reasons, and he didn’t know of any shifters that ran in packs. This was a large farm—it would require many hands. Plus, one look at the large old farmhouse told Sam that a family lived in it. There was a front porch swing that creaked in the wind, and a small spattering of children’s outdoor toys along rail. It was neat and orderly, but clearly lived in.

Sam decided to simply approach the house. He could see a few hands out in some very far fields, but they were tiny points that just seemed unlikely to answer if he called out. The big man walked casually up to the front steps, trying to look as unthreatening as possible. It was a side-effect of his height, Sam knew it. He looked more dangerous because he was a tall, built, male. Castiel really didn’t understand how lucky he was that Jimmy was of more average height and slighter build. People were never creeped out by him—well, until he spoke.

As soon as Sam had one foot on the first porch step, the front screen door swung open to reveal a middle-aged man holding a shotgun. Sam’s hands immediately shot up, one empty and palm out, while the other held the bag of (half eaten) meatball sub. The young man smiled with his best innocent expression he could.

The older man looked him over with a set, gray stubble-covered jaw. “What’s your business here, son?” Sam noted that the man had a southern accent—though he could not place where from. It wasn’t anything too heavy or drawling.

“Hello, Sir.” Sam kept his hands up. “Sorry to bother you, but I seem to be lost. I was trying to get my bearings, and saw your drive.”

A thick brow cocked upwards as the man lowered his gun. “What were you doing out on the road?”

“Uh…” now this was confusing. His first thought was to say that his car broke down, but this guy was probably handy. On the off-chance that the man decided to be a Good Samaritan and fix the car himself, how would Sam explain the complete lack of car?

Sam really wasn’t very good at lying—unlike his soulless counterpart from what he’d been told—so he usually chose to just modify the truth. It was easier to recall at a moment’s notice, and didn’t tend to send off the “dude’s lying” signals.

“Well Sir, I’m not actually clear on that myself.”  Sam licked his lips and lowered his hands. “I was on my way back to my brother’s and my hotel room with lunch, when I was almost hit by a truck when I was crossing the street. I think I blacked-out, because the next thing I remember is waking up on the side of the road.”

The man before him looked downright suspicious, as he probably should be. It sounded like the story a liar or drunk would tell. Sam was pretty sure that the man didn’t want either type of person around his family.

“Sir,” Sam interrupted any thoughts the man might have about tossing him out on his ass. “I know this looks bad, and I really don’t need to come into your house or anything if you are uncomfortable. I would just like directions, and if I may, to fill up my water bottle. I’ll just keep moving.”

Supporting his gun in the crook of his elbow, the older man seemed to mull over this idea for the moment. He looked Sam over once more, then sighed.

“Of course I can’t send you off lost. What kind of—well don’t just stand there. Come inside and have something cold to drink.” The man stepped back and held open the door as he waved Sam through. It didn’t escape Sam’s notice that the farmer let the barrel of his gun bump against the hunter’s leg as he brushed past. He wasn’t too worried. It was just a warning—man had his family after all.

The house was an older home—probably built during or shortly after Civil War—but it was in immaculate condition, albeit pretty outdated. Sam was being directed through the sitting room and into the larger eat-in kitchen. The furniture he passed by looked remarkably small, and he dreaded the thought of sitting his long legs onto cushions so close to the floor. It was antique and probably refurbished, so while he forced himself to have a respect for such décor, it wasn’t comfortable for anyone over 5’10 or 180lbs. He wasn’t sure if his ass would be comfortable to the poor small furniture either.

The kitchen was clean and neat, but seriously in need of some updating. There were only a few cabinets, a large antique stove range, tiny old icebox, and a large table in the center which was obviously used for both eating and food prep. The people who lived here must have seriously wanted to retain authenticity, even though the stove was something much more turn of the century rather than Civil War Era. Not that Sam was a stove historian or anything. He just recalled catching a few episodes of _The Old House_.

The older man indicated for Sam to sit at the table which was (thankfully) of a more normal size. Sam sat, and the farmer tucked his shot gun into a cubby next to a back door. He moved to the icebox, snatching a tall glass from a nearby cabinet.

“Sweet tea alright?”

“Wonderful,” Sam provided. It really did sound amazing right now.

The man nodded, then pulled a large pitcher from the icebox. “What are you and your brother doing in town?”

Again Sam felt like he could barely lie to this man, with his discerning eyes, so he decided to mold an element of truth to his needs. “We’re—” He stalled. He recalled that he had none of his IDs on him at this time, so he didn’t want to say they were cops without any form of paperwork to back that up.

“Bounty hunters.”

The farmer sat down at his table and pushed the already sweating glass to Sam. The taller man took the drink and gulped it down without much ceremony, but then sat back with a sigh of appreciation.

“Excellent iced tea. Thanks.”

“No trouble. Another?”

Sam hated to accept a second—he was used to the fact that he could eat most people out of house and home, and it did not make him feel like a polite house guest—but he was so thirsty. “Yes please.”

The man stood again with the glass to refill it. This time, he just left the pitcher on the table in front of his guest. Sam swallowed half the glass in one breath, then set it on the table, forcing himself to take a break.

After a short pregnant silence, the farmer said “Bounty hunters, huh?”

“Yes sir.”

“Anyone really dangerous?”

Sam nodded. “Unfortunately, yes sir.”

The man worked his jaw slowly, then turned to fully look at Sam. “Well then, I’m glad you’re here son.”

Sam knew when someone was taking something personal. His father and Dean took everything personally all their lives. “Sir?”

“My niece—killed recently. Murdered. I’d venture to say the man you’re looking for is here.”

Sam’s eyes slid to the gun by the back doorway. “I see.” The hunter turned back to the gray-haired man. “I’m sorry to ask this, but do you mind sharing the details?”

He licked his lips and the younger Winchester brother noticed the light shadow of gray stubble on his upper lip. “Would it help?”

“It might,” Sam’s voice was soft, gentle of the man’s feelings. This was an investigation to him, but not to the uncle of the dead girl.

Worn, leathery hands massaged a sore shoulder. “Raped, cut wrists, bled out.”

“Was the blood missing?”

The older man leaned back in his seat and gave Sam a critical eye. “It was. You know who did it?”

He rubbed his hands together, feeling the knuckles crack slowly. “I might have an idea, yeah.”

“Was it who you were hunting?”

Sam took a gulp of his drink. “I’ll hunt anything that’s killing people.”

The gray head bobbed up and down in agreement. “Good.” He suddenly reached across the table, offering his hand. “The name’s Wells. Robert Wells.”

“Sam.” He took the man’s hand. “Sam Oldaker.”

 

 

He had no concept whatsoever until Robert’s twenty-three year-old daughter walked into the kitchen in a flapper dress. Even then, he was certain it was a costume for some party. She was lovely, reddish blonde with a waving bob, but Sam really was much too distracted with his current lack of brother and angel to spend too much time appreciating her looks.

“Hey Daddy,” she bounced into the room, causing her skirt to swish with her. She eyed Sam immediately, and there was barely any falter in her gait as she switched her path to the stranger at her table. “Hello there.” She chirped.

Sam stood and held out his hand. “Hi.” She took his hand, then seemed a little surprised at the shake.

“Sam,” Mr. Wells stood beside his daughter to introduce the two. “This is my youngest, Dana. Dana, this here is Sam Oldaker.”

“Pleasure, Mr. Oldaker.” She was a tall woman wearing heels. Her gaze naturally fell on Sam’s chin, and it took little tilt to meet his eye. Sam noted that Dana was taller than her father.

“Likewise,” Sam submitted somewhat distractedly. He needed to get some angel conjuring ingredients soon. He glanced to Robert, who stood watching his child with an uncertain expression. He needed to look into these deaths too.

The gray haired man looked between the two younger bodies in his kitchen, then cleared his throat. “Dana, Mr. Oldaker is looking for the men who killed Mavis. Tell him what you told me yesterday.”

Sam’s proverbial ears perked. “What happened yesterday?”

Dana pulled out a chair between the one her father had been using and the one the hunter stood beside. She tucked herself in neatly, crossing her ankles once she was comfortable. Fumbling with the small purse at her hip, she began.

“Mr. Oldaker—Sam, if I may?” Sam nodded as she pulled out a silver cigarette case and plucked a slim paper roll from it, then tapped it against the closed lid. “The night before last, I was in town. I heard from a reliable source that someone was camping out in Mr. Wager’s old farm—the man is dead, but sometimes drifters stop in there while passing through.” Sam was surprised to see her flick her polished fingernail against the match head to spark it to life. She lit her cigarette, took a drag, then slowly exhaled. He noticed for the first time that she had some heavy dark lines under her eyes which she was attempting to conceal with powder.

“Well, anyway, this group hasn’t left yet. And yes, I know it is a group,” she waved her cigarette in front of her face, “because I drove over there yesterday to check up on the place and there were at least five cars parked behind the old barn.”

“And that was stupidity in action, girl.” Mr. Wells grumbled from his seat across the table from Sam.

Sam, who had turned to Robert when he spoke, turned back to Dana quickly. “You didn’t see anyone outside when you drove there?”

Dana shook her head as she pulled from the brand-less cigarette. “Not a one.” She breathed out heavily, a trail of smoke tumbling from her full, red lips. Sam was vaguely reminded of demons. “Looked in a window though. They seemed to be piled together on the hay, sleeping. Like a litter of puppies or something.”

Robert Wells turned his attention to the hunter, a question of whether Sam had a clue. Oh Sam had a clue alright. It sounded like Robert’s daughter drove up to, and spied on a large vampire nest. She was lucky it had been daylight and they tended to sleep then, otherwise she probably would have been their next meal.

Sam nodded to Robert, _yeah that’s them_.

The older man glanced back and forth between Dana and Sam. Dana was watching for a reaction from the hunter, her cig perched between her long but slim fore and middle fingers. Her hair curved softly in a side part over her eye, then down her cheek.

“I’d like to check out this farm…in the _daylight._ ” Sam emphasized. He wasn’t running into a large nest alone without scoping out the place beforehand. “Could you give me the address?”

Robert shook his head and swallowed the last of his tea. “I’ll do you one better; I’ll drive you out there real quick while there is still some day to be had.”

Sam wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he nodded quickly. “Thank you, sir. I just ask that you follow my lead, and you don’t get out of the car.” He drank down some more of his drink—the ice had melted some time ago. “I’d rather not put you in danger.”

Dana’s eyes hadn’t left Sam’s face as she smoked at their kitchen table. Sam was really surprised someone who cared enough about the house’s antique décor allowed their daughter to smoke in said house, but maybe the whole family smoked and it went fairly unnoticed. He glanced at the walls and breathed in the still but fresh air and decided that no—normally people did not smoke in this house.

“That’s alright with me.” Robert Wells stood slowly, wiping out the wrinkles in his slacks. “Finish your sweet tea. We’ll take the truck.”

His daughter pressed the slowly burning stick to her mouth and sucked in a breath, all the while watching him until he stood from the table. Her eyes were narrow, and her brows thin, but her lips were full and her face soft. A light dusting of freckles covered her forehead and cheeks that even her makeup couldn’t totally hide. She was pretty, Sam decided, but she was also very unnerving in how religiously she watched him. Her head turned as she watched him leave with her father, and Sam had a sudden weird thought that she would be in the same position when they got back.

 

 

There was another tickle of an idea at the back of Sam’s brain when they piled into a running 1927 Ford Model T truck, which was clearly still in use as a farm truck.

“Oh wow!” Sam breathed as he sat in the old bench seat. “You still use this regularly?”

Mr. Wells, who had begun to start the car but stopped in mid key-turn at Sam’s question, looked at him with a head tilt that reminded him of Cas. “Excuse me?”

“I mean…” Sam felt his voice drop. “It seems to be in really great shape—and my brother loves old cars—fixes them up and everything.”

Robert looked at him hard for a moment, seeming to decide something about his character, nodded and let a softer expression replace his last. “Alright then. Glad you like it.” He turned the key quickly and nearly flooded the old bird, but managed to pull her through, then into gear.

 _Did I just get the “dude’s insane but harmless” look?_ Sam thought as he felt the truck bounce into the drive.

The last clue came when they passed a freakin’ funeral procession of 1920s cars and some _horse drawn buggies_ —including a horse drawn hearse.

The teleporting and sudden lack of angel—oh _shit!_

“What’s today’s date?” Sam blurted loud enough for Robert to feel the need to hit the brakes.

They lurched to a stop in the middle of the road. Mr. Wells turned sharply to look at the hunter beside him. “What the hell, boy?”

“The date.” Sam insisted. He towered over the farmer in the small cab, but he suddenly felt like a small child needing reassurance from a parent. “Please?”

“August ninth,” the gray haired man provided.

 _Wrong month. Wrong day._ “Year?”

“Son, are you alright?” A bushy brow was cocked at the younger Winchester.

Sam’s puppy eyes came through full force, though he didn’t mean for them to. “ _Please!”_

“Nineteen twenty-nine, boy!” The look on his face was both incredulous and worried. “Did someone hit you on the head or something?”

He felt himself cringe as he covered his eyes. “Oh no no nonononono…” He hunkered down into the smallest hunch his body could make and tried to get a grip. _The house, the furniture, the dress, the car! Holy shit I’m in fucking 1929! Where the hell is Cas?_

_No phone. No laptop. No internet. No beer to make it through without the internet! Cas couldn’t have sent him into the fucking future, no…_

“I’m sorry.” Sam murmured under his hands. “I have…there was a bad hunt a few years ago. Sometimes I—” he wasn’t sure if “flashback” was a term in 1929, “—I forget where I am.” He sighed. It was a bad lie, but he thought he might be shaken enough to pass for a man with PTSD. He’d watched Dean enough after hell to get a decent idea of what that looked like.

The older man gave him the most critical look he’d experienced since his last encounter with an angel. After a moment, he pulled back from his death grip on the steering wheel, and forced himself to relax back into the seat. “Does it interfere with your work?”

Sam dropped his hands, palms scraping over his chin, and looked at the farmer. “Occasionally.” 

Robert met Sam’s eyes and seemed to let them settle into the brown color, looking for anything dangerous about the younger man. _If only he knew about the demon blood_ , Sam thought. Mr. Wells nodded slowly, then turned his gaze back to the road before pulling the car back into gear.

He cleared his throat as they slowly picked up speed. “My brother has nightmares from the war,” he spoke simply, without indication that he would elaborate.

Watching the driver, Sam wondered idly how unusual their family _really_ was. All things considered, Dean really had his head together.


End file.
